


the world made small

by cowboykillers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-25 08:40:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6187798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykillers/pseuds/cowboykillers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a saying somewhere that it takes a village to raise a child. Sometimes, it takes an Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, I can't stop writing Dorian and Cullen, and I am weak for domestics and found family and the horrors and joys of raising children, so this was the next logical step. This will be a lot less plot-heavy than [the list of things you left behind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6087568) is, but if you're in it to win it with Cullen Reluctantly Being The Best Dad He Can Be and Dorian being horrified to discover paternal urges, this might be the fic for you.
> 
> Or, you know, if you just want to indulge in fluff and kid fic and unconventional families, this also might be the fic for you.
> 
> Background pairings so far include Solas/Lavellan, but open for suggestions on others!

The trumpet heralding the Inquistor's return is as welcome as it is startling, a full two days before the team was expected back from their expedition. This can either be the best of news or the worst of it, in Dorian's experience, and it's the worry of the latter that has him marking his place in the tome he's spent the better part of a week translating and rising from his chair. Fiona casts him a curious look as he turns the corner sharply, taking the stairs at near to a trot, and he breezes past Solas' desk without pausing to peruse his work as he normally would. There isn't much of a commotion when he makes it outside, lending itself more to the idea of happy circumstances than not, but Dorian would still prefer to see evidence of the party returned in one piece with his own eyes. The majority of his favored people had gone out on the expedition, after all, and though he often complains bitterly when forced into the more temperamental regions of Ferelden, he has come to care a great deal for all of them, in his way.

Not that he'll ever admit as much unless he's under extreme duress, but that's neither here nor there.

The first thing he notices is that all of them seem to be able to stand upright and carry themselves into the keep, and with that realization goes the majority of the tension in his stomach, allowing his shoulders to drop looser and his smile to come easier when he catches the Inquistor's eye. She offers him a wan smile, raising a hand to beckon him over, greeting, "Hello, Dorian."

"Inquisitor," he returns, pausing next to her to flick his gaze between herself and Solas, noting that they both look rather more weary that he's accustomed to seeing them. With an arched eyebrow, he says, "You're all back rather early, and you look worse for wear for it."

Lavellan surprises him with a laugh, short and bordering on the edge of exhaustion. "Trust me, it wasn't the trek that tired us all out. But I've got to get Mother Giselle before I fall over," she adds, pushing her bangs back from her face with a long sigh, and Solas frowns faintly at her.

"Allow me," he murmurs, fingertips barely grazing her elbow, and as she turns a grateful smile on him, Dorian's eyebrow inches very slightly higher.

So that's how it is, then.

Bringing up the rear of the party are Varric and Cullen, and it surprises Dorian to see the commander's trademark cloak bundled up in his arms rather than over his shoulders. Unable to help himself, he gestures toward it, smiling broadly as he crows, "Do my eyes deceive me? Did someone finally do the Inquisition a service and burn a hole in that wretched garment? It's only that I'd like to know who it was so that I can thank them personally, if there's enough of them left to express my gratitude to."

Cullen's steps slow as Dorian cuts him off at the pass, and it's almost impressive how mighty his scowl is. Indeed, were he a lesser man and less familiar with the so-called Lion of Ferelden, Dorian might even be a touch intimidated, but as things stand, the only thing he truly notices is how _exhausted_ Cullen looks once the man is right in front of him.

At his side, Varric warns, "I'd keep your voice down, Sparkler. We've got some precious cargo."

"Do you?" Dorian asks, gaze flicking between the two of them, and he sees humor spark in Varric's eyes for a split second. "I don't follow."

Wordlessly, Cullen reaches up to gently turn back the fold of his cloak, and if there was ever a sin that Dorian could claim, it's curiosity: he leans in, eyes growing wide as a small, round face is revealed. The child has ruddy cheeks and long, pointed ears -- vaguely, he hopes that the poor thing will grow into them eventually, or at least grow some hair to help give its face proportion -- and, as the sun's glare registers, its face begins to twist.

Cullen carefully tucks the cloak around the baby's head again, tenting it so that shadow is cast over its face, and gazes at Dorian for a few seconds longer than is necessary. "If you wake this child," he says, voice an entirely reasonable, pleasant pitch, "I will personally ensure that you never get more than three hours of uninterrupted sleep until Corypheus himself is reduced to ash."

Dorian blinks, mouth still hinged slightly open, and Cullen doesn't seem to require any further answer. He sidesteps, leaving Varric chuckling softly, and begins to make his way toward the rapidly approaching Mother Giselle.

After a moment, Dorian asks, "Did he," and seems to reconsider, watching as the bundle is carefully passed from one pair of arms to another. "How did the commander come by that baby?"

Reaching out, Varric claps a hand on Dorian's shoulder. "Ask Curly the story after he's had at least eight straight hours of sleep. For that matter, I'm hitting the hay, too. That kid's got a set of lungs on her."

As if aware she is being spoken of, the elf-child lets out an almighty, wailing scream, arms outstretched and spine arched fitfully in Mother Giselle's arms. Dorian physically recoils from the noise, watching Cullen's face fall almost theatrically at the scene, but when he reaches for the child again, Mother Giselle shoos him away.

"Let her cry," he hears her instruct, falling into an instinctive sway with the baby tucked up against her chest. "You are barely on your feet, Commander. Rest, or you will be no good to anyone, least of all this child."

"I--" Cullen sighs, shoulders slumping, and runs a hand over the back of his neck. "Of course. Thank you."

It isn't like the commander to seem so defeated, so abnormally small, and Dorian wonders if it is the lack of his usual fur mantle or the slightly hunted look on his face that gives the impression of it. They both watch Mother Giselle leave, the baby calming by steps as she murmurs softly into the crown of her head, and it isn't until Cullen shifts to head toward his quarters that Dorian realizes he is, in effect, still standing there gaping after the most recent addition to the Inquisition.

Dorian considers saying something, perhaps asking what _in the Maker's name he thought he was doing, bringing an infant back to Skyhold_ , but something stops him from starting that conversation. Self-preservation, perhaps, or possibly even pity, as he watches Cullen slowly ascend the staircase toward his office, palm dragging along the railing.

Well, as long as he doesn't have to spend any appreciable amount of time around the thing, it should be fine.


	2. Chapter 2

It is patently not fine.

Dorian has no great paternal instinct, and dismissed the idea of having and raising children many years ago. He likes them in a vague sense, typically when he's out of range of their spit-up and can duck away from their eternal, incessant wailing cries, but when they're quiet and well-behaved he likes them as well as the next civilized person does. Family in general -- and children especially -- has always been a bit of a sore spot for him, but he's not a complete monster.

To hear the rest of the Inquisition tell it, however, if you aren't up to your ass in soiled diaper cloths and perfectly content to babble senselessly at the thing for all hours on the day, you're a heartless, evil beast of a Tevinter Magister.

Dorian tells himself that he doesn't care much what the majority think, because Lavellan trusts him and she is, he supposes, the best friend that he has left in the world, and he has made a habit of being the least-liked person in the room for a very long time. It's not as though it's a new coat for him to try on, and while it is annoying, it's hardly unexpected or impossible to deal with. Still, the Inquisition is his chance for a new start, his opportunity to do more and be better than he has ever been, and he finds himself incredibly annoyed that this is apparently to be the straw that breaks that druffalo's back, or whatever that awful saying is here in the south.

So, no, he does not particularly relish the idea of entertaining the child and pretending that she is the most interesting thing in all of Skyhold, but because people expect him to hate her and avoid her at all costs, he must do exactly the opposite. The fact that he makes Mother Giselle uneasy and suspicious in the process is honestly all for him, and why shouldn't he get a perk out of this entire mess?

This is how he finds himself in the garden, smiling uneasily into the guileless, drool-covered face of who they've collectively decided to call Ioriel, determinedly ignoring the way Mother Giselle is hovering behind him.

"You'll have to work on that hair," he muses, crouching down to offer his hands for inspection. The light catches on his rings, successfully snagging her attention, and she immediately grabs at his hand and drags it to her mouth. "We can't have another Solas. Between the two of us, the look doesn't even really work for him, but I don't have the heart to tell him. Oh, well, that's lovely."

He pulls a face, suffering the indignity of spittle all over his knuckles for a few moments longer, and then determines that he was won the child's trust significantly enough to risk picking her up. She settles against his chest without complaint, intent on getting back to his rings, and he decides to write them off as a small sacrifice necessary in maintaining his sanity. He's sacrificed much more for less, after all.

And he knows how this goes: you deny the child what it wants and it starts to scream. He can wash his rings, but he will not suffer a headache unless he must.

Turning his back on Mother Giselle, a move he's certain will raise her hackles, he begins to meander toward the chess tables, studying Ioriel's face thoughtfully as he goes. "At least you have good taste. Hah, in a manner of speaking. Perhaps I'll have to get you something shiny and pretty and reminiscent of my homeland. We can truly scandalize the southerners, it'll be great fun."

He can feel drool sliding between his fingers, and he's trying manfully to ignore it because this is a mission of revenge, and he absolutely will not be seen with this baby in his arms and anything but a perfectly pleasant look on his face. It is --  _difficult_ , though. Kaffas, but he was not meant for this.

As he turns, he catches sight of Mother Giselle out of the corner of his eye, projecting very strongly the sense that she is tending to the garden and not at all watching him, and he barely resists the urge to do something ridiculous, just to see if she can keep up her poker face. No, best not tempt fate on his first whirl with the child; he simply shifts her weight on his hip, wondering if she'll ever sit comfortably or if he is simply doing it wrong, and starts toward his habitual table, baby in tow.

He doesn't expect to see the commander leaning against a pillar, his expression caught somewhere between bemusement and humor, but then it occurs to him that this is the window during which they usually play chess. No wonder he felt the need to get up and move -- he's trained himself. How horrifying to consider.

Slowing his walk, Dorian glances from Cullen to Ioriel, raising his brows when she spits his rings out and flings her arms toward Cullen, babbling nonsensically.

"Really," he intones flatly, mock offense on his face as Cullen chuckles, pushing off the stone to reach for the little girl. Dorian almost hesitates, because he's trying to make a point, here, but he also doesn't want to suffer the consequences of separating the child from what she wants. (He's an Altus, for the Maker's sake, and more easily cowed by an elf-child than he is any demon he's ever encountered. Incredible.) "Here we were, getting along so well, and one glance at a pretty face has you abandoning me entirely."

It isn't lost on him how easily Cullen takes to the girl in his arms, holding her with the casual confidence of someone who knows exactly what he's doing, and Dorian hates him a little for that. Or he would, if his smile didn't pull so distractingly at the scar on his upper lip. "Don't take it personally, Dorian. We southern heathens tend to stick together."

Crossing his arms, Dorian snorts indelicately, watching with mild disgust as Ioriel grabs a fistful of Cullen's collar and shoves it in her mouth. Cullen doesn't seem perturbed by this, which is horrifying in its own right. "Should she be eating that?"

"Hm?" He glances down, rubbing his finger over her mouth to ease the fur out of it, and she takes this as an invitation to chew on that, next. "Well, probably not. We don't have much in the way of teething rings and such for her yet, though."

"That's going to be fun," Dorian mutters, and to his surprise, Cullen chuckles.

"It'll be terrible. She's already got a bit coming through, see here," he says, running his finger along the top row of her gums. "Explains part of why she's been so fussy. I believe the Inquisitor and the Ambassador are making a trip to Val Royeaux for the necessities, but until then, we can do little but share in her suffering."

"Charming," Dorian drawls, catching Cullen's eye and softening the sentiment with a slight smile. "You're rather good at this, Commander. Pray tell, do you have any love children wandering the wilds of Ferelden? Prior experience in this sort of thing?"

"Maker, no," Cullen says, pulling a face. "I grew up in a small village, in farmlands. Someone was always having a child. Besides, it isn't all that difficult. You seemed to be doing fine."

He'd been stiff and awkward, and he could likely thank his jewelry for being the only reason she hadn't been screaming her head off, but it's kind of him to say. Dorian finds himself smiling a little more genuinely, and leaning over to brush his hand over the top of Ioriel's head, combing back the peach fuzz that's currently passing for hair.

"To be honest with you, Commander, I'm mostly being affectionate out of spite." Exaggeratedly, he rolls his eyes to the side, where Mother Giselle has abandoned her pursuits with the flowers and is instead chatting idly with one of the scouts. "Everyone expects the evil Magister to eat the baby for dessert, et cetera. She doesn't make it _incredibly_ difficult to be affectionate, though, I'll allow. Yet."

Cullen is frowning, but all he says is, "She'll grow on you, Dorian," as he drops a kiss to the top of her head. Content, Ioriel turns her face into the fur, blinking heavily.

After a few moments of silence, Dorian ventures, "I never did hear the story of how you acquired her, or the rationale behind bringing her back here in the first place. Skyhold does not have a nursery, last I checked."

Cullen sighs, the sound so soft that Dorian almost misses it, and something impossibly sad shifts into his expression for just a moment. If Dorian is expecting a grand tale of heroic rescue, however, he is disappointed: Cullen is as brief and succinct as ever, saying, "Her mother was badly wounded and, upon seeing the Inquisitor and Solas, asked if we would care for her child. We could hardly say no to a dying woman, and brought her back with haste. We will get by," he adds, voice softening, and rubs a hand up the girl's back.

The casual affection, the steady, easy truth of the statement -- the idea that Cullen believes it, and will work to make it a truth -- settles uncomfortably in his chest. This girl is not the commander's family, and a handful of days ago, no one in the Inquisition had even been aware she existed, and yet here they are, banding together to give her the best life they can under the circumstances. Here they are, _caring_ , when there is nothing to gain but trouble and burden, and it makes no sense to him.

After a few long moments, Dorian takes a step back, tucking his hands behind his hips with a small, strange smile. "I believe you will, Commander."


	3. Chapter 3

The second time he hears the baby cry, it's because Cullen is trying to get away from her.

The tragic look on the commander's face would make him laugh if Ioriel's robust, wailing cries didn't grate impossibly on his nerves. It brings him up short, and he watches in fascination as the brave, imposing commander of the Inquisition's forces buckles under the pressure of a tiny, tear-streaked face, scooping her up and bouncing her in his arms until she quiets. The frown on Mother Giselle's face is impressive, but even from a distance, he gets the idea from her body language that she's trying very hard not to be amused.

Not even a year old, and Ioriel has the second most handsome man in the keep wrapped around her finger. Perhaps he ought to ask her for tips.

Switching direction, he comes up beside Cullen and the baby, noting her blotchy face and thankful that she seems as disinterested in him as he is in her, and smiles. "Having difficulty escaping your admirer, Commander?"

Sounding just a touch aggrieved, Cullen murmurs, "She's terribly attached. Likely because I carried her back to Skyhold, and she's still trying to familiarize herself with all of us."

"Or she simply has good taste in men," Dorian suggests, more for the simple pleasure of the split-second of flattered uncertainty on Cullen's face than an actual attempt at flirting. "I can't fault her for it. Her fascination with your cloak, however, is ill-advised indeed."

Shifting Ioriel to rest more comfortably in the crook of his arm, Cullen inclines his head, indicating that Dorian should fall in step with him. "I feel no small responsibility toward her. I try to come see her as often as I can, and then this..."

He puffs a sigh, and Dorian rolls his eyes, smile twitching up. "Honestly, you sound surprised. The child has clearly imprinted on you."

"Imprinted?" Cullen casts him a quick look, his smile caught between disbelief and amusement. "She's not a duckling."

"Yes, well." Flapping his hands in front of him, Dorian ignores the curious looks cast their way, focusing instead on the peculiar softness drifting in and out of the commander's face each time he glances down at the baby. Ioriel, it seems, is not the only one who is _attached_. "I am a man of many and varied talents, but children have never been a particular interest of mine. Excuse me if I get some of the terminology wrong."

Relaxing into the conversation, Dorian doesn't realize that he now has the little girl's sole attention until he catches Cullen shooting him increasingly amused looks. Coming up short, he stops speaking abruptly, furrowing his brow at his audience. "Why is she... so intent on me?"

"Likes the cadence of your voice, I think," is Cullen's absent reply as he reaches up to thumb some drool away from her chin. "It's nice." 

There is a beat of silence where Dorian is perfectly certain that the commander has no idea what he's just said, and he magnanimously decides to let it slide.

"And you shouldn't pretend you don't like her," Cullen adds, leading them into a turn that will take them around the expanse of the garden once more. "You say spite, but I know what affection looks like. Further, I caught you going through the baby things with the Inquisitor--"

"For quality assurance, Commander," Dorian insists, tossing his hands up with an affronted look. "If we let our dear Ambassador at her, the poor thing will be drowned in ruffles and lace."

To Dorian's surprise, Cullen swings his hand to hook a finger in the gap of Dorian's armor, giving it a playful tug. "And if we leave it to you, she'll freeze to death for the sake of fashion."

"Unhand me," Dorian commands, swatting at Cullen's hand, and doesn't miss the quick flicker of a grin on his face. "Brute. Oh, you find this rather funny, don't you?"

Ioriel's laugh is a happy burble, and before Dorian can adequately defend against it, Cullen is shifting and transferring her into Dorian's arms. While he has no great desire to be the child's next security blanket, he isn't very well going to drop her, and so a spluttered, "What are you -- honestly --" is all he manages as he does his best to get a decent grip on her. Exasperated and more than a touch annoyed, he looks up just in time to see Cullen reaching for a missive from a runner, and his stomach sinks.

Unconsciously, he begins to sway back and forth, brow furrowing as Cullen scans the document, and he watches the commander's handsome face settle into grim, resigned lines. It's a pity: he's _so_  very good looking, and the burden and worry placed on his shoulders ages him by years each time he frowns.

"Commander?" He asks, shifting Ioriel and tipping his face away from her when she tries to shove her fingers in his mouth. "Is everything all right?"

"I'm needed in the War Room," he replies briskly, tucking the parchment away and leaning toward Dorian. For one startling, embarrassingly anticipatory moment, he almost thinks that Cullen is going to kiss him goodbye. Instead, he drops a kiss onto the baby's head, gaze flicking to Dorian only briefly. "She'll be ready for a nap soon. Just pass her to Mother Giselle, if you would. Thank you."

"Right," Dorian manages, sounding only slightly off, as Cullen strides away. After a few moments' silence, he bends his head, lips brushing against Ioriel's temple.

"What foolishness was that?" he murmurs, ignoring the way his heart thumps hard against his ribs. "You know better."

In his arms, Ioriel seems to realize Cullen is gone, and she begins to fuss once more, throwing her fists high. Dorian shifts his grip so that he can swing her up and look her in the face, the move swift enough that it startles her into complacence, and he says briskly, "None of that. Your boyfriend will be back in short order. For now, I believe you have a date with a very soft blanket, yes?"

There's absolutely no consoling her, and he is not too proud a man to admit that it is with relief he passes her to Mother Giselle. He can see Blackwall approaching as well, bringing up one end of what looks to be a hand-crafted crib along with Cassandra, and before he gets roped into helping set up an official  _nursery_ , he ducks around a corner and up the stairs, steps brisk. 

It's fantastic and all, this baby bringing everyone together, but it's really not his speed. 

That's what he tells himself, anyway, as he resettles in his favored chair, gaze drifting to the window every so often as his mind wanders from the text at hand. He's not looking for anyone in particular, of course; the fact that his gaze drifts toward the commander's office is coincidence, but it doesn't matter, anyway. His candle burns itself out before the council concludes, and Dorian, as he tells Bull when the Chargers' leader pops his head around the corner with an invite to Wicked Grace, needs his beauty sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

He is offered a place on the team for the expedition into Emprise du Lion, and because he values each and every finger and toe attached to his body, he politely declines. He can tell that Solas would rather go regardless, because there's talk of red templars and that implies a certain level of danger that his apostate friend seems loathe to allow their dear Inquisitor to face on her own. Further, he'd overheard the commander and Lavellan discussing someone named Samson quite seriously, so he gets the idea that this is more than just a routine venture. It's none of his business, but a trite little detail like that has absolutely never stopped him before, and so he devotes the weeks that the Inquisitor and her party are away to finding out everything he can about this mystery man. It has absolutely nothing to do with the grave look on Cullen's face, nor the steel in his tone, the scant few times this Samson has been brought up, either -- Dorian simply hates not being in the know.

It isn't difficult to make the connection between a man orchestrating the corruption of templars with red lyrium and Cullen, however, or to imagine why the man assumes it's his responsibility to take care of the matter. (In that regard, he and Dorian are similar enough that he chooses not to dwell on it. He hardly needs _one more_ good man to measure himself up against, after all, especially when he suspects he will still fall rather short.) At one point, Varric catches up to him and manages to make him feel _guilty_ for his attempts at getting to the bottom of things, and though Dorian is almost certain that isn't his intent, it's enough to make Dorian set aside his curiosity for the time being.

Without the commander running regular interference, the most steady influence that Ioriel has in her life is Mother Giselle, and Dorian takes it upon himself to rectify that particular situation. Though she is clearly uncomfortable, there is no real reason for Giselle to deny him time with the baby, especially when she is so unreasonably enamored of Dorian; he only has to start talking and she reaches for him, a captive audience the likes of which he rapidly grows accustomed to. Fiona seems amused when he brings her into his alcove, setting her up in his lap with a book propped open so that he can read to her, and has never once complained about the disturbance. He gets the idea that she would like to spend time with the baby herself, actually, but something is holding her back, and he never presses.

Forays into complicated emotions regarding family and children are not his forte, after all.

Ioriel is on the floor at his feet, laughing delightedly into a hand mirror that Vivienne presented her on her way to the new acquisitions, when the horn sounds to signal the adventuring party's return. Dorian glances at the window, drumming his fingers against the aged pages of the most recent Genitivi the library procured for him, and debates gathering up the baby to greet them. More than likely, everyone will be tired and in want of a bath, and he knows how Cullen is with her -- better to wait until they've all had some time to resettle, or the commander will keel over where he stands attempting to dote on the little girl.

Secure in his decision, he resettles in his chair, raising his eyebrows when Ioriel abandons her mirror to tug at his bootlace.

With an exasperated noise, he leans over to scoop her up, bracketing her between his arms and propping the book up on his knees. "We don't eat laces. I know the cuisine here leaves something to be desired, but even so, one must have standards. Now, back to the Anderfels, as I know you've been waiting with bated breath..."

Ioriel stuffs her fingers in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he lulls her into sleep with the steady, soothing delivery of the text, and Dorian ignores the small shimmer of pride that blooms in his chest at the accomplishment. It isn't as though he's ever coveted the position of nanny, after all, and any layman who could read would likely have some measure of success so long as they didn't keep at it too long, but he does take some petty satisfaction in the fact that Ioriel seems to favor him.

Not as much as she favors Cullen, which would wound him a little were it not for the fact that he can most certainly see the appeal himself, but he's willing to take second place in this one circumstance. 

Besides, she seems to have a strong aversion to Blackwall (his beard, perhaps?) and mercilessly tugs on Solas' ears whenever he holds her, so really, Dorian is rather content with the arrangements as they are. He'd begun doting on the child because it was the last thing anyone expected of him, but the more time he spends with her, the more he can grudgingly allow that she is rather well-behaved, as a whole, and not a complete misery to be around. The teething he could do without, and changing her cloths is decidedly one of his least favorite activities, but there seems to be any number of people willing to pop out of the woodwork and lend a hand with the slightest provocation, so even that is not too incredibly awful.

He turns the page, careful not to jostle her too much, and when she begins to snore very lightly, he breathes through the strange pinch around his heart and continues to read silently.

***

"Ah, you are here."

Dorian arches an eyebrow at Mother Giselle, ignoring the steadily growing damp spot on his shoulder where Ioriel is merrily chewing away at his clothing, and gives her back a brief, absent pat. "Yes. She's up from her nap and I really must get some work done, preferably without a drooling audience."

He sweeps his gaze over her desk, noting that there is quite the pile of correspondence ready to go out, and wonders if she's made any headway endearing their forces to the chantry. Likely not, and honestly, Dorian wonders if that's an association they really even want to attempt to foster, but he's kept that opinion largely to himself. He's already considered a heretic and a walking threat, and while the general opinion of him does seem to be softening, he has no doubt that if he begins to raise noise about the southern chantry he'll rapidly lose any ground he's gained.

Giselle folds her hands over her desk, peering at him in a calm, thoughtful way, and then nods toward the baby. "Perhaps you could take her to Commander Cullen? He could use a friendly face."

It's on the tip of his tongue to grouse that he isn't her errand boy, and he's certainly not responsible for ferrying the baby to and fro, but he resists. There's something about the way Giselle is looking at him, the faint frown etched between her eyebrows that he recognizes as concern for the commander, that makes him want to see for himself just how Cullen is faring after the expedition. It's a bit surprising that she's imparting this to him, but then, he supposes she and Cullen might not be on the friendliest of terms themselves.

It isn't that they harbor any ill will toward each other, and Cullen is a pious man, but he hasn't exactly been quiet about his criticism of how the chantry has been presenting itself, and he _did_ leave the Order. Perhaps that is one of the reasons he and the commander get along, come to think of it: they're both devout men in their own ways, but Cullen is one of the rare few who is willing to look past the structure of his religious upbringing and to the heart of of his spirituality. Dorian admires that sort of faith, and admires the man that holds it, far more than he does the more stiff-backed religious fanatics that have become the mouthpiece of Andrastian philosophy.

But that is neither here nor there. He hardly wants to get into a religious debate with Giselle, and certainly doesn't care to dig further and see why she chooses not to reach out to Cullen herself. If there's any awkwardness there, that's entirely none of his business -- and it is the particular brand of "none of his business" that he is content to leave that way.

Smiling, he inclines his head. "Well, it's a good thing for all involved that I happen to be easy on the eyes, hm? All right, Lady Ioriel, our devilish good looks are clearly required elsewhere," he croons, wiggling his fingers in front of her face and watching her laugh as the rings catch the light. "Let's go cheer up our dour commander."

Ioriel smacks at his hands, twisting in his arms -- she's getting restless, and will want to be down to crawl about in short order -- and Dorian is so focused on her that he misses the troubled look that Giselle aims in his wake.


	5. Chapter 5

He's not sure what he expects when he goes into Cullen's office, but finding the commander as casually dressed as he's ever seen him and with a scowl to rival Cassandra's of a morning is not it. The man doesn't even seem to notice he's entered, which gives Dorian a rare and interesting opportunity to observe him while his guard is down, so to speak, and he thinks he sees what Giselle meant when she'd ushered him off with the baby in tow.

It's not that Cullen looks particularly rough, because it seems there's always a vague air of restlessness and exhaustion about the man, but he has very clearly suffered an injury that will limit his mobility. He can't think of many things more trying on the mood than being wounded, and considering the man's leg is propped up on a foot stool and wrapped in some kind of awful brace, Dorian imagines even getting up and down out of his chair is a trial.

Actually, he hasn't ever seen the commander use his office chair, come to think of it. It's all very alarming, is what it comes down to -- Cullen in a tunic and breeches, scowling down at a pile of reports, his free hand tensing and relaxing by turns against his thigh -- looking simultaneously more like a person than Dorian has ever seen him, and also completely, absurdly untouchable at the same time.

And then Cullen looks up, mouth twisted into a grimace that pulls on his scar, and his gaze falls on Dorian. There is a moment of surprised silence between them, and in the space of time it takes for him to blink, Cullen's entire expression has relaxed into something of welcome, warm and fond and entirely reserved for Ioriel, he's sure. That is the only explanation, or at least the only one he is prepared to entertain, and so he starts forward abruptly, wide smile in place.

"Commander, you look... awful," he decides, casting a significant look at Cullen's leg, but to his surprise, the other man only chuckles.

"I've had worse," Cullen says, shaking his head slightly and straightening in his chair. He looks uncomfortable, unaccustomed to sitting in something with so high a back, but his amusement remains. "I'd hoped you would stop by."

There's something about the way he says it, a softening of his tone toward the end, that inexplicably raises Dorian's hackles. To compensate, he rolls his eyes, shifting Ioriel's weight on his hip when she twists and reaches desperately for Cullen. "Yes, your biggest fan has missed you as well. It seems I'm the most convenient ferry for Her Majesty. You're welcome."

"Tragic, I'm sure." One of Cullen's eyebrows arches, but Ioriel is transferred smoothly between them, her hands immediately going to the stubble on his neck. He arches his back a little, resettling, and Dorian takes a moment to admire the absolute rightness of the image they present, the little girl sprawled comfortably over his chest, one of his large hands curled around her back to keep her in place.

If he didn't know any better, he'd think Cullen was her father.

Folding his arms, he rests a hip against the corner of Cullen's desk, nodding toward the stack of parchment. "I take it you've been chained to your desk for the foreseeable future."

Cullen grunts, rubbing his thumb in easy swipes against Ioriel's back, and returns, "Don't look so smug about it. I'm sure I could convince the Inquisitor to let me conscript someone to run ragged while I'm indisposed." He blinks at Dorian, expression far too innocent, as he muses, "Someone with recent experience running about Skyhold at all hours of the day and night, and of course, some talent with the baby is a must--"

"Yes, I take your point," Dorian grumbles, waving a hand between them imperiously. "And you are not as funny as you think you are. Contrary to popular belief, I do immensely important work all day, and you should consider yourself blessed by my presence, Commander."

Casually, Cullen agrees, "Of course." and there isn't even enough in his tone for Dorian to tell if he's being sarcastic or not.

The commander has a habit of this -- saying things earnestly, intently, in ways that ought to be embarrassing but just come across painfully _sincere_ \-- and Dorian never knows whether to take him seriously or not.

So, he glares, though there's no real heat behind it. "See if I hold back on teasing when you hobble to the chess table next, my friend. This attitude is most unbecoming of you."

Ioriel lets out a great belch, startling them both, and Cullen aims Dorian a particularly bland look over the top of her head. "Yes, we all stand on ceremony here, clearly."

"She's most definitely  _your_ daughter," he says without thinking, and the surprise that flickers over Cullen's face shouldn't be half as endearing as it is. Dorian hadn't thought the idea was so close to the surface, but now that it's out in the air between them he can't very well take it back, and to his utter fascination, Cullen doesn't immediately backtrack and stammer his way through a refusal. Rather, once the surprise fades, something rather close to wistfulness takes its place.

"I don't think I'm qualified," Cullen admits, tone subdued. "Between you and me. Mother Giselle has... suggested as much, given our mutual attachment, but what kind of life could I give her?"

It startles Dorian to be folded into this conversation, to be trusted enough that Cullen would consider airing his thoughts -- his insecurities -- on such a matter. Rarely has he ever seen the commander let down his guard, even when it would have been understandable to do so, and surely not in front of him. It lends an uncomfortable intimacy to the moment, making the words heavier somehow in the hushed atmosphere of the room, as even Ioriel seems content to be still and quiet in the wake of his admission.

This isn't -- what he wants. He doesn't want this connection, the ties that bind him to people here, because he knows that this won't last. He's Tevinter, he's an interloper, he's one man trying to do good, yes, but with every intention of picking up and leaving when the time is right. Friendship is one thing, because it can be superficial and it is possible for it to survive time and distance both. Dorian knows how to have friends without any sort of risk, knows how to keep that buffer up between himself and other people so that he never accidentally treads on areas easily bruised, and vice versa. But with Cullen --

Maker take the man, he doesn't play by the rules. He simply invites Dorian in, gaze steady and open, as though confiding in him about this is the most natural thing in the world, friend to friend. Or at least, he does until the silence draws on a little too long, and his expression begins to close up.

A tactical retreat, complete with, "Ah, forgive me, I'm merely thinking out loud." and suddenly, Dorian doesn't want him to pull back.

"A better life than she could have with the Chantry," Dorian says quickly, unsure why the words come with a brief rush of adrenaline. "You care. You're a person, not an institution. Not everyone gets that," he adds, hands curling against his sides, and his smile goes a little brittle. "You're already off to a better start than many an orphan could expect, Commander."

Cullen's tone is quietly gratified when he says, "Thank you. I've... never given much thought to it, you know."

"Parenthood?" Dorian asks, grateful that Cullen doesn't press where it would be so easy to. That is not a conversation he is prepared to have, no matter how much of himself the commander seems willing to offer up. "Really? It seems to fit your image so well. The dashing hero, home from war to settle down on a farm with a pretty girl and a passel of children and dogs."

"Well, that," Cullen admits, drawing the tip of one finger down the length of Ioriel's spine thoughtfully. "But mostly... the after. I'd thought to devote my entire life to the Order, and with my duties here, now, it's been a simple matter to simply carry on and not think much of how things will be, eventually."

"Until someone dropped a baby in your arms." Dorian's wry smile matches Cullen's own, and he gives in to the impulse to lean over, nudging at the leg of Cullen's chair with his boot. "Did it never occur to you to pass her along to someone else? Or must you assume every burden lobbed at you, stoic and long-suffering?"

"She's not a burden." What might have been sharp months before, when they were still learning the measure of one another and the limits of their respective tempers, is only exasperated now. It's a little jarring to realize how well the commander has come to know him. "But -- yes. I know her mother would have preferred the Inquisitor, or even Solas, but--"

"But she chose you." Amused, Dorian braces a hand on the desk top and twists, popping his back satisfactorily. "The heart wants what it wants, Commander. Why fight it?"

Cullen inclines his head, waiting to catch Dorian's eye, and though his tone is unremarkable, there's something soft about his face when he agrees, "Why indeed."

Chest growing tight, Dorian hesitates a beat too long for his response to be anything but awkward as he slides off the desk and quips, "You should take my advice more often. It's quite good, obviously." and rubs his hands together briskly. "And on that note, back to work with me. These tomes aren't going to decipher themselves, and Maker forbid I let any of your scribes at them."

Cullen swings his leg off the stool, ducking his head as he does, and Dorian can't help but feel like he's badly bungled something. All Cullen says, however, is: "When you find yourself ready for a break, do join me for a game. I've a board here that is almost never used."

It's a dismissal, and Dorian handles it with grace, though the vaguely uneasy sense that he's squandered a rare opportunity follows him throughout the day. Fortunately, it's easy enough to bury himself in the volume the Inquisitor so generously procured for him from Tevinter, and he does get rather a lot of work done.

The absolute quiet while he reads is strange, but not unwelcome, he insists to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on tumblr at [tevenesass](http://tevenesass.tumblr.com) if you want to shout about these losers or just be pals or anything, really. (thumbs up) I also accept prompts, because writing things for people makes me happy, so come at me.


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